Wow, kat!

Me too, including ironing the hankies. I remember how the fabric smelled as it got hot. Mama would say, "Turn that iron down, don't scorch them."

In Mama's special drawer was a packet of letters, which I was not allowed to touch. They were bound with a faded pink satin ribbon. My dad died when I was not quite 8, and growing up, I always assumed they were from him. After Mama died, I looked at the letters, feeling guilty, but too curious. The letters were from a long-ago suitor whose lavish handwriting spilled across page after page, declaring his undying passion. I was shocked and amused at the same time. I burned the letters. They still weren't any of my business. As the smoke drifted away, with it I sent an apology to Mama for prying into her affairs.

Thanks for the brief trip home,

Giac